unnervingly black gaze raked her up and down, disdain etched all over his face. ‘I must admit, I might have felt differently if you’d come via the front door dressed in something a little more enticing, Miss O’Sullivan, but even then I can’t say that you’d be my type.’
Nessa struggled to understand—he couldn’t possibly mean...but then she registered what she’d said and how it might have sounded. And, she registered that he was looking at her with disgust, not disdain. Her gut curdled as a wave of mortification rushed through her whole body, along with hurt, which made it even worse. She burned with humiliation and fury.
‘You know I did not mean that.’
He raised an imperious brow. ‘What did you mean, Miss O’Sullivan?’
Nessa had started to pace in her agitation and she stopped and faced him. ‘Please stop calling me that—my name is Nessa.’
His voice was hard. ‘Nessa.’
The way he said her name impacted her physically, like a punch to her gut. She instantly regretted opening her mouth but Miss O’Sullivan was beginning to get under her skin. This man. This...meeting...was veering so far off course that she wasn’t even sure what they were talking about any more, or what was at stake.
She tried to force herself to stay focused, and calm. ‘What I meant, Mr Barbier, is that I will do everything in my power to convince you that my brother is innocent.’
LUC STARED AT Nessa O’Sullivan.
I will do everything in my power to convince you that my brother is innocent.
What kind of an empty suggestion was that? And why had it given him such an illicit thrill to see her act so shocked when he’d called her bluff? She’d blatantly offered herself to him—and then pretended that she hadn’t!
He wanted to laugh out loud. As if she were an innocent. There was no innocence in this world. Perhaps only in babies, before they grew up to be twisted and manipulated by their environment.
His conscience smarted to think of how he’d told her she wasn’t his type. He couldn’t deny the pounding of his blood right now. He told himself it was anger. Adrenalin. Anything but helpless desire.
Luc knew he should have walked away long ago and left her at the mercy of the authorities, no matter what he thought of them. He had enough evidence now to damn her, and her brother. But he knew that wasn’t necessarily the best option. Not for him.
She was staring at him, as if bracing herself for whatever he was going to say. She was throwing up more questions than answers and it had been a long time since anyone had piqued Luc’s interest like this.
What did he have to lose if he contained this himself? It wasn’t as if the local law enforcement could do any better than the private security company he’d already hired to investigate the matter and track down Paddy O’Sullivan.
One thing was clear. This woman wasn’t going to be walking away from here. He didn’t trust her. Not one inch of her petite form. Not after he’d seen how far she was prepared to go. And she wasn’t going anywhere until he had his money returned and he knew there was no damage to his reputation. If she was involved in this crime, then keeping her close would surely lead him back to the thief.
He folded his arms and saw the way her body tensed, as if to steel herself. In that moment she looked both defiant and vulnerable, and it caught at Luc somewhere he wasn’t usually affected. More acting. It had to be. He would not allow her to make a fool of him.
* * *
‘You say you want to convince me your brother is innocent?’
Nessa still felt sick to think that Barbier had taken her words to mean that she was offering herself up, like some kind of—She forced the thought out of her head. Of course this man would never look at someone like her in that way, but she didn’t need to be humiliated.
She tipped up her chin. ‘Yes.’
He was looking at her with unnerving intensity. She really couldn’t read him at all. Her mouth felt dry and instinctively she licked her lips. His gaze dropped to them for a second and her insides flipped. She ignored it, telling herself her reaction to him was due to the heightened situation.
His eyes met hers again. ‘Very well, then. You’re not leaving my sight until your brother accounts for his actions and my money is returned.’
Nessa opened her mouth but nothing came out for a moment. Then she said, ‘What do you mean, not leaving your sight?’
‘Exactly that. You’ve offered your services in place of your brother, so until he or my money returns you’re mine, Nessa O’Sullivan, and you will do exactly as I tell you.’
Nessa struggled to comprehend his words. ‘So you’re going to hold me as some kind of...collateral? As a prisoner?’
He smiled but it was mirthless. ‘Oh, you’re quite free to walk out this door, but you won’t make it to your car before the police catch up with you. If you want me to believe that you have nothing to do with this, and that your brother is innocent, then you will stay here and do your utmost to make yourself useful.’
‘How do you know about my car?’ Nessa asked, distracted for a moment and not liking the way panic had her insides in a vice grip.
‘You were tracked as soon as you parked that heap of junk outside my perimeter wall.’
Fresh humiliation washed over Nessa to think of her stealthy progress being watched in some security room. ‘I didn’t hear any alarms.’
He dismissed that with a curl of his lip. ‘Security here is silent and state of the art. Flashing lights and sirens would unsettle the horses.’
Of course it would. Hadn’t Nadim insisted on installing a similarly high-tech system on their own farm? Nessa searched in vain for some way to avoid being forced to spend an unknown amount of time under this man’s punitive command, even though she’d all but asked for it. ‘I’m a jockey and I work at our family farm—I can’t just walk away from that.’
Barbier’s black gaze flicked dismissively over her body again before meeting her eyes. ‘A jockey? Then how have I never heard of you?’
Nessa flushed. ‘I haven’t run many races. Yet.’ In recent years she’d gone to university and got a degree, so that had taken her out of the circuit for some time. Not that she was about to explain herself to Barbier.
He made a scathing sound. ‘I’m sure. Being a jockey is gritty, hard work. You look as if a puff of wind would knock you over. Somehow I can’t really see you rousing at dawn and putting in a long day of the back-breaking training and work that most jockeys endure. Your pretty hands would get far too dirty.’
Nessa bristled and instinctively hid her hands behind her back, conscious of how unpretty they were, but not wanting to show Barbier, even in her own defence. She still felt raw after his stinging remark, I can’t say that you’d be my type.
The
